


and he carries the reminders

by Kyele



Series: a fighter by his trade [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blackmail, Blasphemy, Bloodplay, Blow Jobs, Cilice, Confession, Hand Jobs, M/M, Pain, Psychological Torture, Scold's Bridle, Sexual Slavery, Slut Shaming, Verbal Humiliation, bad bdsm, good BDSM (different pairing)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 15:11:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4142409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s not as if Treville doesn’t know what Rochefort is doing. Distracting his enemy, knocking him off balance, preparatory to doing serious damage. And yet knowledge of the tactic renders it no less effective. When it comes to Armand, Jean is open and unprotected, and Rochefort is taking ruthless advantage of that fact.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	and he carries the reminders

_Pater noster, qui es in caelis,_ _sanctificetur Nomen Tuum._

This early in the morning the Basilica is quiet. The glittering court of Louis XIII stays up well past midnight, pursuing their entertainments, and their sleep correspondingly stretches until the sun is high. Sometimes it places Treville in an awkward position. As a nobleman and a courtier, he’s expected to attend Louis through the night. As a soldier and a Musketeer, muster ought to be at dawn. It’s a balancing act he’s maintained through shrewd time management and careful delegation for all of his career. And it’s not without his benefits. Paris is a different place between the hours of three and five in the morning, a secret place, one few men see. In the space after the night’s revelry is ended and before the sun returns to the sky one may walk places and learn things that are hidden at all other hours.

The lamps burn low in the Basilica, and the acolytes will not replace them, not when the stained-glass windows will soon fill the nave with a riot of colors. The brightest source of illumination comes from the candles lit for the dead. Those tapers flicker endlessly. A cluster under the shrine of the Blessed Virgin honor mothers dead in childbirth. Others under the Son remember youths felled by disease, duels, or on campaign. By far the largest constellation lie at the feet of the alter itself for those who can claim no intermediary.

When Richelieu had died, the Basilica had been lit up at night as brightly as at noon, as all Paris had come to kneel before his coffin and pay their respects. A separate gallery had been formed for those who wished to pray to the departed saint-to-be or light candles in his memory. While in life Richelieu had had more enemies than friends, in death he had been venerated.

One day, when Richelieu is truly dead, he will be forgotten. Oh, the history books will remember him: he’s done too much to escape the editor’s pen. And the annals of Rome will record him, and the monks will say his name with all the other lights of the church on feast-days and on All Saints’ Day. But one day the widows of Paris will stop lighting candles in his memory. One day, if Richelieu truly does predecease Treville, the candle Jean lights will be one among many, anonymous, forever to remain so.

_In nomine Patri, et Fili, et Spiritu Sancti._

Treville rises from the rail, stretching slightly before turning and making his way to the confessionals shrouded in dimness against the far wall of the church. Another reason to come late. Armand views Jean’s soul as being just as much in his charge as the rest of Jean. Confessing to Armand had never been a hardship. In the Cardinal’s absence, Treville is under strict instructions to confess regularly to Father Joseph, who is stewarding Richelieu’s spiritual affairs in his absence. The court of Louis XIII often forgets that Richelieu had been a churchman as well as a minister. They forget that _Cardinal_ had not just been a title but a sacred charge. Richelieu doesn’t forget. Father Joseph has his own orders in Richelieu’s absence.

The third confessional from the left is the only one with the candle burning. Treville enters, kneels again, and crosses himself. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned – ”

“You don’t have to tell _me_ that,” the man on the other side of the screen says, amused. “I’m quite familiar with all of your perversions, my _dear_ Treville.”

Treville’s guts turn to ice.

The man on the other side of the screen gets up. Treville hears the sound of the priest’s door sliding open. Then Rochefort steps into the small penitent’s booth and closes the door behind him.

In the brief moment of travel, Rochefort puts out the priest’s candle. They won’t be disturbed.

“Confession?” Rochefort asks rhetorically. “I’m astonished.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Treville says through dry lips. “We’re not all eager to blacken our souls – ”

In the small space, Rochefort doesn’t have room to draw his hand back far, and the resulting blow is more like a slap. Physically it doesn’t do much more than sting. Emotionally it does worse. Rochefort’s eyes burn in the half-light like candles themselves, and Treville doesn’t need Rochefort’s raised eyebrow to know what he’s being threatened with.

Rochefort waits a moment. When Treville doesn’t attempt to speak further, he nods and seats himself. The confessionals at the Basilica have both the kneeler and a small, padded bench for those who are unable, through infirmity or age, to prostrate themselves fully. Treville hasn’t moved; he’s left kneeling at Rochefort’s feet, and by the smirk on Rochefort’s face, it is intentional.

“This is a church,” Treville grinds. “Your games are not welcome here.”

“My games?” Rochefort leans back and tugs off his gloves, relaxed. “This is not a game, Captain. You’ve come to confess your sins, and oh, they are numerous, aren’t they?”

Gloves off, Rochefort unlaces his breeches next. Treville swallows bile.

“Look at you,” Rochefort muses. “You speak to the King as if you’re worthy of his attentions. You pray as if God might be interested in a maggot like you.”

“God is interested in everyone.”

“Don’t confuse Richelieu’s interest with God’s,” Rochefort says. The first hints of anger appear in his tone. He cups his cock in one hand and lifts it. “Your only god is right here.”

Treville opens his mouth, furious. Rochefort’s other hand shoots forward and settles itself warningly around Treville’s throat.

“Think carefully about what you presume to say,” Rochefort hisses.

With difficulty, Treville makes himself set his emotions aside. It’s hard. He’s not an unblooded, hot-headed youth anymore, but Rochefort strips away at his control. If Treville were truly alone in the world he’d have no defense. As it is, only his promises to Richelieu allow Treville to breathe out his disgust and humiliation and relax into the knowledge that he’s doing his duty, however distasteful.

“Good,” Rochefort says. “I know that must have been hard for you to swallow, Captain. Why don’t I give you something to chase it down with?”

Rochefort’s cock is stiff under his fingers now. Treville eyes it with barely concealed disgust. In the dim candlelight it seems purple with flushed blood, engorged and beginning to leak, bobbing mere inches from Treville’s eyes.

The Comte feeds it to Treville by quarter-inches, each additional mouthful anticipated with the same dread a prisoner might feel towards the next lash of the whip. Treville takes it all. He knows the trick of opening his throat to accept the full length, and Rochefort has left him enough conscious thought to use it, this time. To let him lave the underside with his tongue and flex his throat around the tip. Treville works Rochefort’s cock obediently, mind as blank as he can make it, until the Comte comes down his throat.

“The cup of salvation,” Rochefort murmurs. His fingers trace Treville’s lips and catch a drop of semen still balanced there; Rochefort collects it on one gloved fingertip and forces it into Treville’s mouth, where the leather leaves a foul taste behind. “None of it should be wasted. Certainly not by a sinner like you.”

Treville swallows it all. _Appease him,_ he reminds himself. _Appear obedient. Appear cowed._

Better not to think. Better not to notice how it gets easier, every time, to bow his head and remain silent. Better not to realize how Rochefort is chipping away, slowly but surely, at Treville’s barriers.

Better to curl silently around the still-intact core of himself, the part called _Jean_ , than to act out and risk the blow.

Rochefort does his breeches back up. Then he looks down, thoughtfully. “What’s this?”

Still deliberately blank-minded, it takes Treville an extra second to realize what’s caught Rochefort’s attention. Then Rochefort reaches down to trace the leather of the leather cuff around Treville’s wrist, and Treville flashes hot, then cold.

The cuff is a reminder of Armand; one that the Cardinal had had made especially for Jean, and one that Jean’s taken immense comfort in. Lately – since Rochefort had started demanding Treville’s service – Treville has worn it constantly. Waking and sleeping, at the Louvre or kneeling before Rochefort, its pressure has been an ever-present reminder that Treville goes through none of this alone.

Every other time Rochefort has seen Treville, Treville’s been in uniform. The presence of the wrist-guard has gone unremarked. But tonight – this morning – in this liminal space between night and day, Treville has come to the church as he is. Dressed in simple clothing, the wrist-guard is suddenly an oddity, a piece of military gear he has no reason to have donned.

“How odd,” Treville says, trying to play it off. “I must have forgotten I was wearing it. I’ll – ” he tries to withdraw his hand.

Rochefort isn’t fooled. He pins Treville’s forearm to the hard wood of the penitent’s rail with one hand and the threat in his sneering lips. Treville struggles, instinctively, and Rochefort’s grip gives. Treville is stronger than he is. But a soft hiss comes from Rochefort’s lips, a whisper: _“Remember.”_

Remember the papers, Rochefort means. Remember the proof of Treville’s relationship with Richelieu. Remember the ruination that awaits should Treville resist Rochefort too determinedly.

Treville stills. It’s hard. Harder still, as Rochefort undoes the buckle and slides the guard from Treville’s wrist. Treville shivers, abruptly naked and exposed, as Rochefort turns the guard inside out. It doesn’t take him long to find the cross stamped on its obverse. It takes him no time at all to return his gaze to Treville’s wrist, and to trace the mark the cross has left behind in Treville’s skin.

Everything in Treville yearns to flinch from that touch. It’s a more intimate violation than any of the sexual acts Rochefort’s compelled Treville to perform thus far. Treville would suck Rochefort’s cock a thousand times if it would cause Rochefort to remove his finger from Richelieu’s mark. Bend over and open himself a thousand times if Rochefort would return Richelieu’s cuff to Treville and never speak of or notice it again. Close his eyes and open his soul for the lash of Rochefort’s words a thousand times if Rochefort will only forget that he’s ever seen what Richelieu means to Treville still.

And Rochefort has seen it. In a single glance he sees all. His lips curve in a smile in which there is absolutely nothing human.

“Well,” he murmurs. “Well, well. This does explain things.”

Treville doesn’t want to know what it explains. Without his conscious command, his fingers stretch out towards the cuff in Rochefort’s hands, yearning to return it to its proper place.

Rochefort withdraws it, holding it out of Treville’s reach. “I’ve wondered where your stubborn core is getting its resistance from,” he says idly. “Memories fade. But a physical reminder like this doesn’t. I know it too well. I have those, too, you see. Mine are scars. Brands. Yours are kinder, it seems.” Rochefort studies the cuff again. “I can fix that.”

“No,” Treville whispers.

This time the blow sends Treville reeling. His head knocks against the rough wood of the penitent’s booth, and for a moment he sees stars. When his vision clears, it comes to land on Rochefort’s boot, resting gently atop Treville’s outstretched wrist. Right atop the red cross mark still pressed into Treville’s skin.

“No?” Rochefort says, and presses down.

Treville doesn’t scream. He doesn’t. He mustn’t. And Rochefort knows it. The church may be mostly empty but there are still people in it. The last thing Treville can afford is for someone to come running. Treville gasps for breath and hangs on, unwilling to close his eyes, unable to cry out, as Rochefort watches and smiles and presses until Treville thinks he can hear his bones creaking.

Abruptly Rochefort lets up. Treville can’t stop himself from curling forward over the injured limb. With his other hand he palpates his wrist, pressing, checking. Fearing.

“It’s not broken,” Rochefort says. “Not even sprained. Bruised, certainly. But you’ll be able to use it.”

Treville has come to the same conclusion. He slumps back against the kneeler, still panting, refusing to admit that moisture is pooling under his lashes in a combination of pain and relief.

“And to make sure no one asks questions about it,” Rochefort adds, “I’ll be returning this to you.”

He holds up the wrist-guard. Treville reaches for it, nearly dizzy from sudden relief.

Rochefort raises it out of reach. “Not immediately.”

Treville takes a deep breath. He doesn’t want to ask, doesn’t want to give Rochefort the satisfaction, but he knows his part in this little drama. Knows Rochefort won’t be satisfied until Treville plays it. “When?”

“Are you worried?” Rochefort asks, widening his eyes in offended innocence. “Don’t you trust me?”

The touch of Rochefort’s hand on Treville’s jaw startles him. Treville flinches in anticipation of the blow. Instead Rochefort’s fingers slide up to Treville’s cheekbone and wipe away a small bit of moisture that’s collected there. Treville’s stomach turns; he narrowly holds back a heave.

“You have no choice but to trust me,” Rochefort says, dropping his hand. “And so you will. It’s that easy, isn’t it? No matter what I do to you, you’ll trust me, because I am the only one with the authority to determine your truth. You existence centers around me. You didn’t like what I said earlier, but it’s true; I am your god now.”

“No,” Treville whispers. It’s all he dares to say. But whatever Rochefort may do to him for it, Treville can’t allow that statement to pass.

He’s expecting a blow. He’s expecting more pain. He’s expecting anything but what he gets: a slow, almost compassionate shake of Rochefort’s head.

“I thought that once,” Rochefort replies. “I learned better. You will, too.”

“No,” Treville says again. This time he’s speaking to Rochefort’s retreating back.

Rochefort’s answer, if he makes one, is lost to the swish of the curtain as he leaves the confessional.

The empty place on Treville’s wrist seems to burn.

* * *

Rochefort leaves him in suspense for two interminable days. Treville is distracted and snappish, feeling adrift, as if the world is no longer steady beneath his feet. It’s all too familiar: he’d spent years this way, drifting chaotic through his life, until Armand had caught him and built him again into something that could endure. But Armand is the bedrock on which Jean had been founded. Without Armand he’s lost.

Foolish that a piece of armor should have such meaning. And yet it had been more than a piece of armor. Armand had known how Jean would disintegrate without Armand’s care. The wrist-guard had been Armand’s way of holding Jean together even in the face of physical separation. And now that necessary element is in the hands of their enemy, and Jean can’t sleep at night for missing Armand.

It’s not as if Treville doesn’t know what Rochefort is doing. Distracting his enemy, knocking him off balance, preparatory to doing serious damage. And yet knowledge of the tactic renders it no less effective. When it comes to Armand, Jean is open and unprotected, and Rochefort is taking ruthless advantage of that fact.

Armand would protect Jean, if Armand were here. But Armand isn’t here. Can’t be here.

He would come. If Jean called, Armand would return in a heartbeat, France be damned. And that’s exactly what Jean must not let happen.

Treville tells a lot of lies, in those two days. When his man notice he’s eating less and skipping practices, and come to him with their innocent concern, Treville tells them he’s only distracted with the rapid changes of Louis’ court. When Jussac takes him aside and tells him that Rochefort’s taken a new lover, and asks if Treville has heard anything about who it may be, Jean lies and says he hasn’t. And when he lies awake at night, unable to sleep without the physical reminder of Armand’s love, Jean lies to himself. He tells himself he’ll be fine. That Jean is secure enough in Armand’s love, and Treville in his own value, to endure anything Rochefort can hand out.

If nothing else, Jean thinks in the darkest moment before dawn on the second day, Armand will at least return to find Jean is a better liar.

At midafternoon on the second day a Red Guard delivers a message to Treville’s office, summoning him. Treville is so off-kilter he doesn’t even react to the implied insult; only the looks two of his Musketeers exchange remind him to snap and bristle. Once he’s out of the barracks Treville stops bothering with bluster. He follows the Guard back to the Palais-Cardinal in stony silence.

Silence, it seems, is the order of the evening as well. No sooner has Treville stepped into Richelieu’s bedroom – Rochefort’s bedroom – than the Comte has a gloved hand pressed to Treville’s mouth, forcing Treville to swallow the demands that had been on the tip of his tongue. Rochefort’s other hand tugs the door closed behind Treville. The servant who’d escorted Treville through the Palais has already fled, wise enough to know he wants no part of what’s about to happen.

“So predictable, Captain,” Rochefort murmurs in Treville’s ear. By the gleam in his eye, he’s enjoying the look Treville is giving him. “But I’m no more interested in your confessions here than I was in the church.”

Rochefort reaches behind, not removing his other hand from Treville’s mouth. A small table sits, instruments at the ready. Rochefort picks one up and shows Treville what he’s holding.

“To keep you silent,” Rochefort says.

Armand had had three gags in his collection, all different styles, all relatively mild. Rochefort, Treville already knows, does not favor mild toys. But a scold’s bridle is beyond anything he’s attempted to use on Treville so far.

He’s been waiting. Treville sees it in the sudden flash of insight that’s saved him on so many battlefields. Rochefort had read him, sensed that the moment was not yet right. Sensed that Treville still had some inner reserve that Rochefort hadn’t yet touched. Now, with Richelieu’s cuff in Rochefort’s possession, Treville is vulnerable. Now Rochefort may push.

“I’m going to remove my hand from your mouth,” Rochefort murmurs. “And then I’m going to put this on you. For each word you utter before I do, you’ll wait an extra day before I return your wrist-guard to you.”

The threat is an effective one. Treville doesn’t stop glaring; Rochefort hasn’t said anything about nonverbal expression. But he holds his tongue as Rochefort removes his hand and begins to lock the device in place.

A handful of interminable moments later, Treville’s tongue is being held in a more literal fashion. This isn’t one of the gags sold in discreet places in the market, in a small stall hidden by a curtain, or spread in a stall keeper’s lap, her shawl hiding the wares from prying eyes. This isn’t a toy meant for play or mutual pleasure. This is an instrument of discipline. An hour in a scold’s bridle is a common punishment for libel, for too much gossip of the wrong kind, for a wife who talks back to her husband one too many times.

The iron bands press into Treville’s skull where they hold the mouthpiece in place. The thick weight of the bit traps his tongue. And the sharp spikes are a threat of what will happen if Treville so much as attempts speech.

“Much better,” Rochefort murmurs. A cruel smile curls his lips upwards as he takes a step back and admires the result. “Why is the need for speech so incessant in so many people? Commoners chatter on, ignorant that the nobility care nothing for their yarns. Whores attempt to speak, as if their customers have any interest in what’s between their ears. Even prisoners talk, though they know they shouldn’t, when the hot iron scars their skin.

“And you,” Rochefort muses. “You, who seem at first glance to know fully your true worthlessness – you open your mouth and speak. Why is that, Treville?”

Treville, naturally, doesn’t reply. Cannot reply. He lets himself lean back against the sturdy wood of the doors and focuses all his attention on breathing, in and out, through his nose.

His heart cries out for Armand. His soul, knowing better, turns to prayer. _Pater noster, qui es in caelis…_

Rochefort smiles wider. “So you’ve learned that much at least.”

The Comte reaches out. Traces the places where the metal meets skin. One finger slides inside Treville’s mouth, pinioned open by the device, and lightly traces the flat top of the bit. Its edges dig into Treville’s cheeks, but that pain is minor, easily ignored. The threat in Rochefort’s deceptively casual gesture is far more frightening. If Rochefort were to press down, the spikes would pierce Treville’s tongue, injuring him – perhaps permanently.

Rochefort waits, almost unnaturally still, like a snake lying in the grass. Treville keeps his attention on breathing. On the beats of his heart. On the familiar lines of the Lord’s Prayer. He wants to close his eyes, but he doesn’t dare. Like a prey animal Treville keeps his gaze fixed on his tormentor.

After what seems like an eternity, Rochefort withdraws his fingers. “Strip,” he orders. “Get on the bed, face-down.”

Treville does so, hating himself for his compliance, but far too vulnerable in this moment to risk delay. He takes refuge in the position Rochefort’s directed him to assume. Rochefort’s ego, his desire to mimic the Cardinal in every way, extends to the smallest detail. The solid dark wood of the bedframe is familiar. So are the rich hangings and luxurious linens. The pillows Treville hastily arranges on either side of his head, to support him and allow him to breathe without risking damage from the scold’s bridle, still contain the faintest trace of Armand’s scent.

The hand on his neck might almost be Armand’s, too. Armand would rest his palm there. Sometimes he’d just stroke Jean’s hair, contemplatively, in the afterglow. Sometimes Armand would apply pressure. Not too much. Never too much. Never enough to steal Jean’s voice or breath. Just enough to ground Jean. To hold him in place. In Armand’s dwelling, in his presence, in his love –

Rochefort presses hard. Treville’s already lost his voice, but now he loses his breath, too, as his face grinds against the soft pillows and the sharp edges of the bridle cut into his cheeks, his temples, his chin.

“You would do well to keep your focus on more Earthly matters,” Rochefort hisses. “Hands behind your back. Cross them.”

Once again Treville obeys. Rochefort binds Treville’s wrists quickly. The binding scratches and digs into Treville’s skin; Rochefort isn’t using the fine-plaited rope Armand had kept for such play, substituting instead something that feels like fisherman’s twine. Treville makes himself unclench his fingers, relaxing his hands so that the twine doesn’t cut quite so deep.

The first stab of Rochefort’s cock is merely uncomfortable. Jean’s no virgin. And he’s used to taking and holding a variety of small plugs. The first inch or two is easily gained.

Jean’s mind wanders to happier times. Armand had liked plugs. Liked the physical reminder they’d represented. He’d rarely sent Jean back to the garrison with one. Only when Armand could be sure that its presence and concomitant distraction wouldn’t endanger Jean in any way. But when Jean’s next destination had been the Louvre, or a social occasion – at court, at a ball, in attendance on the King – Armand would slide the reminder inside Jean, and smile every time he’d see Jean’s step hitch.

Even without lubrication, then, the beginning is easy to accept. To disregard. Physically. Rochefort’s laughter is less easily ignored.

“See how your body accepts me,” Rochefort hisses, even as the passage becomes tighter, as his thrusts become more forceful, begin to turn discomfort to pain. “This is the only confession you ever need make, slut. On your belly, ass in the air, warming my cock. Doing what you were made for. Take away your fine uniform and your protesting words, and the truth becomes plain.”

Treville tries to grit his teeth and cries out, wordless, as the spikes on the bit cut his sensitive flesh. He’s being torn before and behind, but still he tries to shake his head. _No._ It’s not true. Armand has said it isn’t true. Jean is more than that.

Rochefort’s laughter, dark and cruel, contradicts that cherished belief. “You’ll learn it’s true soon enough,” he promises. “I’ll teach it to you, bit by bit, until you say it back to me and know it to be true.”

 _Never_ , Treville thinks defiantly. But better men than he have broken before.

The pain is deep and stabbing now as Rochefort thrusts, harsh and without consideration. The pressure on Treville’s neck increases. He loses his breath again, and fights for calm, for serenity, not to thrash and fight and hurt himself farther. Rochefort doesn’t want him dead. Rochefort will let him breathe, eventually, and Treville will survive this if he only doesn’t panic –

The warm stain of Rochefort’s release is welcome for the first time, because Rochefort releases Treville in the same moment, and Treville’s free to roll on his side, gasping. Hating himself for even the thought that any of this might be welcome. For bending to Rochefort’s will.

Rochefort unbinds Treville’s hands while Treville is still slumped there against the pillows. It’s uncharacteristic of the Comte. Rochefort rarely undoes anything he inflicts until he’s ready to release Treville entirely, and there has yet to be a session where Rochefort doesn’t come at least twice. But that thought – that consideration – flees from Treville’s mind as soon as his gaze narrows on the small table placed next to Richelieu’s bed. Sitting atop it, where it hasn’t been visible until now, is the wrist-guard that Rochefort had taken from Treville two days ago.

Rochefort sees him looking. He shakes his head. “Still so focused on your false god?” he says rhetorically. “I have a cure for that, too.”

Treville wants to reach for it. Needs to. And yet Rochefort has damaged him already, because he already doesn’t dare, not without permission.

Rochefort sees it. His smile deepens, becomes genuine, though it doesn’t lose its mocking edge. “Pick it up,” Rochefort urges, almost gently. Treville is suddenly afraid.

“Inspect it,” Rochefort adds. “Take your time.” He throws himself on the chaise lounge, watching hungrily.

Treville rolls to his knees, afraid to do more, and reaches out to take it. With a wave of self-anger he sees his fingers are trembling. He snatches it up, too fast, afraid it will be taken away again, and cries out in surprised pain that doubles a moment later when the spikes cut his tongue again. Reflexively his fingers jerk back and he drops the guard again.

Slowly Treville raises his eyes to Rochefort’s. The Comte’s smile has nothing of gentleness in it now.

“Pick it up,” Rochefort repeats. “Inspect it.”

Silently Treville does so. More carefully this time, he grasps the cuff around the outside, where it appears unchanged. The familiar brown leather, the fleur-de-lis, the clasp.

But the inside. The inside has been altered. No longer smooth leather, marked only by Richelieu’s cross. The cross has been effaced. Jean feels its absence like a dull stab to the gut, though he might have expected it. But that’s not the worst of it. Rochefort hadn’t been content to erase Richelieu; he’d needed to insert himself, too. Embedded into the inside of the cuff are neatly spaced rows of tiny, sharp teeth. They’re so small and short that they’re barely visible except as winking flashes of light when the candles catch them among the brown leather. But they’re sharp enough that they’d pricked Treville through careless handling. He looks down at the finger that had brushed them; a small drop of blood has welled up.

Rochefort sees it too. He comes over and takes Treville’s wrist. Without taking his eyes from the kneeling Captain, he raises Treville’s finger to his lips and licks the blood off, shuddering with a pleasure that’s only partly feigned.

Then he holds out his other hand. “Time for your penance, Treville,” Rochefort purrs.

Treville stares at the wrist-guard. He should be reacting – should be giving Rochefort what Rochefort wants – but he’s stunned. He doesn’t know how to process this. Doesn’t know how to behave. Doesn’t know how to allow this, and yet, doesn’t know how to refuse, either.

“Come now,” Rochefort says, enjoying Treville’s dismay. “You wanted your little gift back, didn’t you? A sweet, touching memorial of our dear departed Cardinal. You must have been so lonely without him. You don’t know how to exist except as a possession, do you? That’s why the Cardinal had this made for you. He knew that possessions need to be constantly reminded of their ownership.”

Treville’s breath catches.

“Of course, when a possession changes hands, it must acknowledge its new master,” Rochefort adds, steel entering his voice. “I was going to brand you. Like cattle. But this is better, I think. Now _give it to me._ ”

Treville’s hand moves almost of its own volition, lifting the cuff and handing it to Rochefort. He watches its brown leather gleam in the reflected candlelight. It’s been oiled. It looks like new. For all Treville knows it _is_ new. It would be easier, certainly, to have a new cuff made to Rochefort’s design than to retrofit the old one.

But no. Treville knows with a cold weight in his belly that this is the original cuff, and that Rochefort would not have cared for ease or expense in his quest to taint it. It’s poisoned now, like the wine Rochefort had meant Richelieu to drink, like the relationship between Treville and the King, like the atmosphere of the entire court under Rochefort’s ascendancy.

Rochefort takes the cuff. Unbuckles it. He doesn’t need to order Treville to leave his wrist where Rochefort has placed it. Hanging in the air, just above Rochefort’s waist, as if Treville is reaching for Rochefort.

“This is your penance,” Rochefort says. “For all the sins you had gone to confess. Your worthlessness. Your perversion. Your sluttishness. You will wear this, and you will be punished.”

When Rochefort wraps the leather around Treville’s wrist Treville feels the sting of the teeth immediately. They sink into his flesh like wasps, burrowing beneath the skin and locking there. Those beneath the fleur-de-lis dig into the top of his wrist where the skin is tanned and hardened from honest labor. Those on the obverse slice cruel lines into the vulnerable veins of Treville’s wrist. Rochefort turns Treville’s wrist over. Presses against the cuff where it lays. Watches, fascinated, as a thin line of blood wells up from beneath the brown leather.

Treville doesn’t gasp or cry out. He has that much strength, at least. But he can’t control the way pain etches lines around his eyes and mouth. And Jean can’t control how he aches, like a wounded thing, and yearns for the gentle touch that won’t be forthcoming.

“Perhaps you didn’t notice that the barbs are slightly curved,” Rochefort murmurs, watching Treville’s face. “Not enough to cause you damage, so long as they’re properly removed.”

This is a cue. Treville can’t speak. Couldn’t, even if the bridle were removed. But he can look, and his look is the question Rochefort seeks.

“Properly, meaning two-handed, of course.” Rochefort unbuckles the clasp. Treville watches narrowly as Rochefort lifts the cuff off at a gentle angle. As promised, the barbs come free easily. And as promised, Treville can see how impossible it would be to maintain that angle one-handed. A quarter of the barbs at least would be ripped free. The ones right over the vulnerable skin of his inner wrist.

Treville cannot remove it alone. Not without opening his own veins.

“You will wear this at all times,” Rochefort explains. “No matter what your activity. You will wear it eating, bathing or sleeping. While dreaming. While remembering. And, of course, while sinning.”

Almost gently, Rochefort replaces the guard on Treville’s wrist and buckles it securely in place. Then he steps away and seats himself again on the chaise lounge. When Treville doesn’t move, Rochefort tips his head to one side, feigning confusion.

“Why should you be so angry, Treville?” Rochefort asks, faux concern dripping sickly-sweet from every word. “You begged me to return your lover’s token to you, and I have done so. You begged me to let you wear it. I will let you wear it. You shall wear it as long as you wish.”

Treville looks up slowly. _As long as I wish?_

“But of course,” Rochefort says, mock-solicitous. “That cuff shall not be removed until you beg me to remove it.”

For a moment Treville can only stare. The horror of it crashes into him. Yes, he’d wanted the guard back – wanted to wear it – but not like this. It had been a token of love from Richelieu. A remembrance. Almost a talisman for Treville’s protection. And now Rochefort has taken it and perverted it. Made it into a tool of torture, not a talisman. A token of dominance rather than love. A remembrance, still, yes, well enough. But no longer of Richelieu alone.

For a moment Treville wars with himself. Even sullied, even perverted, he still wants it. He still wants to feel the pressure of the cuff around his wrist like a memory of Armand’s hands holding him steady. Treville wants the sight of it beneath his sleeve in the way some men wear cameos of their wives. Jean wants its warmth and scent as a sense-memory of the times he’d been safe and held and wanted.

But even just kneeling here, it’s painful. Experimentally Treville lifts his hand before his face and flexes his wrist. Agony shoots from his fingers to his elbow. Treville grits his teeth and reaches out, grasping the nearest object – a candlestick, sitting atop the small table where the cuff had lain, its wick untouched by flame.

The clench of his fist is bad. Swinging it experimentally chokes a cry from between Treville’s clenched teeth as the barbs dig and tear sensitive skin. Involuntarily he drops it.

Treville gasps, focusing on the pounding of his heart to steady his breathing and bring himself back under some semblance of control, aware all the while of Rochefort’s gloating gaze as the Comte picks up the fallen candle and replaces it on the small table. Treville doesn’t give Rochefort the satisfaction of seeing his face, keeping his head bowed. He knows that Rochefort will see it for weakness. Knows, in some part of himself, that Rochefort will be right to do so.

The reality of the trap sinks in as inexorably as the tips of the barbs into his skin. Treville can’t lead his Musketeers like this. Can’t draw a sword or fire a musket. Can’t protect the King. Will barely be able to shake hands without drawing his own blood.

It hurts. The pain to his flesh is nothing compared to the ache in his heart and soul. But he knows, with that same cold feeling in his gut, that as soon as Rochefort removes the bridle Treville will beg him to remove the cuff too.

Now, though, Rochefort merely smiles. “I see you understand,” he purrs. “Good. Understanding is the beginning. The rest will come.”

Treville shivers helplessly. _Understanding is the reward of faith,_ Armand had always said. Armand had given it to Jean as a mantra, when Armand had set out to lead Jean out of Hell _._ Now Rochefort stands by that precipice, striving to throw Jean back over the edge, and he perverts St Augustine to do it. Just as he perverts Richelieu.

“We will see how well this functions as a reminder to you,” Rochefort says. “Now.” Rochefort rises from the chaise lounge. Still nude, his cock bobs between his legs, hard and full again. “Do you masturbate, slut?”

Unwillingly Treville nods. The pain in his wrist has dulled now that he’s not attempting to use it, but it’s still there, lurking, waiting for him to be incautious.

“Of course you do. Another sin. I’m not surprised.” Rochefort climbs back onto the bed and stretches out, gesturing to his cock. “At least you have some experience. Get to it, then.”

Treville freezes, confused. He doesn’t know what Rochefort wants. Treville can’t possibly suck Rochefort with the bridle still in place, and Rochefort’s made no move to remove it. Does Rochefort intend to fuck him again? Warily Treville shuffles forward on the bed, using only his knees, unwilling to put any weight on his wrist he doesn’t have to.

But when Treville goes to position himself in Rochefort’s lap, Rochefort’s hand shoots out, and Treville gasps, freezing. Rochefort has wrapped his fingers around the cuff on Treville’s wrist. He isn’t squeezing. But he could, and that’s enough for Treville to attain utter stillness.

“Stupid slut,” Rochefort says, darkly amused. “Always thinking about having that dirty hole filled. You’ll have to do without for a while.”

 _But then what?_ Treville thinks, desperate in his confusion, in his fear.

Rochefort sees it. He smiles.

“Your hand,” he condescends to explain. Adds, as an afterthought, “Don’t worry about lubrication. I imagine you’ll bleed quite enough for that.”

It takes Treville a moment to understand. A single moment that somehow spans to eternity where this horror does not yet exist in the world.

Then the moment ends.

“Well, get to it,” Rochefort orders, watching realization appear on Treville’s face. “If you do well enough, I’ll remove that bridle, and let you beg.”

 _And if I don’t do well enough?_ The thought darts through Treville’s mind, swift and ominous as the roll of thunder.

Rochefort shrugs. “The night is young,” he says lightly. “I’ll let you try again in the morning.”


End file.
